


Walk Between

by skybound2



Series: Courageous Stumbling [2]
Category: Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Crack, Humor, Interlude, M/M, Road Trips, Romance, Tumblr Prompt, vampires in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-12-26 01:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18273488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybound2/pseuds/skybound2
Summary: This is a catch-all for my responses to tumblr prompts or other random story snippets that belong in myWalk Unafraiduniverse, but that don't fit in the main storyline.Current contents: David and Michael go on a road-trip. Music is played, Michael is a terrible singer, and David is maybe just a little bit smitten.





	1. You Are My Sunshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is a response to [darth-salem-emperor-of-earth's](https://darth-salem-emperor-of-earth.tumblr.com/) prompt "David x Michael: The lyrics/song "You Are My Sunshine" and was orginally posted to my tumblr back in August 2018. Thank you again for the prompt, darling!!
> 
> This part takes place in my Walk Unafraid universe sometime after Michael has gone full vamp, and is maybe just a little bit cracky ;-P
> 
> Enjoy!

  **Johnny Cash & Bob Dylan “You Are My Sunshine”**

They’re driving south on I-5 - halfway gone, halfway to nowhere in particular - in a 1970 Chevy they pilfered from one of Max’s leftover lockups. Just putting distance between themselves and Santa Carla one mile marker at a time, giving Michael and his family some much needed breathing room. 

Or lack thereof in their case.  

David figures any number of places may be on the agenda for pit-stops in the near future. LA. Vegas maybe. 

_Phoenix._

But the night is young, the stretch of highway ahead long and black and full of possibilities in its emptiness. This far from anything of consequence, the monotony of the pavement is broken up by the occasional street sign or tree and little else.

Well that and Michael’s consistently out of tune and under his breath singing.

David’s surprised by the pseudo-serenade, Michael never having struck him as the type. David had figured him to be more like Dwayne in that regard than Paul. But sure enough, the sound of quiet humming, just a word here or there, fingers tapping out against the wheel in time, fills the car as they drive.

Michael’s voice grows stronger the further into the night they drive. David’s careful to keep his eyes elsewhere, curious to see how far Michael will take the impromptu concert, and not wanting to spook him by openly staring.

The station they’ve been listening to is a mix of cooler seventies rock - not the hairband stuff that’s been taking over the airwaves the last few years. But Floyd, Bowie, Zeppelin, the Doors. It all meshes well with Michael’s limited vocal range.

It’s…pleasant, in a way. Watching his lover let go. In a way so far removed from when he’d made his first kill.

_Or his second._

David thinks he could get used to it, warbles and all, if it means getting to see Michael this relaxed more often. At ease with himself. With David.

But then the station fuzzes out as they speed down the highway and Michael twists the knob to locate another one. When he does, Johnny Cash’s somber voice is pouring out of the speakers. Michael’s hand hovers over the knob a few seconds before relaxing back onto the wheel.

Baffled, David watches him - no longer pretending to be doing anything else - as Michael’s voice mixes with Dylan’s when he joins Cash, not a lick of self-consciousness in Michael’s demeanor.

Which would be admirable if the song wasn’t about the freaking  _sun_. “You’re kidding me right now, right? ‘ _You Are My Sunshine_ ’?  _ **Really**_?”

Michael doesn’t blush, because he  _can’t_  anymore, but David can feel the way embarrassment swells inside him at David’s questioning. Which good.  _It should_. Because while David doesn’t have many limits,  _they’re vampires_ , and singing sappy sunshine-y love songs is one of them.

And yet even with his chastisement, Michael only misses a note or two before his voice grows louder as he finds the tune again.

David groans in his seat, but doesn’t do anything to stop it from continuing. Charmed despite it all. And if laughter bubbles out of him when Michael directs an over-exaggerated eyebrow waggle his way as the song comes to a close, well, who could blame him? But still, he can’t let this atrocity stand. 

“It’s a damn good thing you’re pretty, Michael, because your taste in music is for shit.”


	2. Rebell Yell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David and Michael continue to argue over music while road-tripping through California.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Response Part 1 to [theherocomplex](http://theherocomplex.tumblr.com/)'s prompt request over on tumblr: _"David x Michael, on a road trip, arguing over music choices (or whatever permutation of that you would like to use!)."_
> 
> This one, like the one before (and the next five), are basically a series of short ficlets each focusing on a different song, but all connected as they all take place during the same road trip post-Michael becoming a full vampire. (It's all basically an excuse to have fun and engage in subtle character introspection. As ya do.) 
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH for the prompt, it helped get me out of a rut, LIKE A LOT. (Also, I had a TON OF FUN thinking up songs to set each piece too :-D)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Billy Idol “Rebel Yell”**

Michael frowns as the first few beating notes of the song start pouring out of the speakers. Before the first line is over, he’s a freshman again, shuffling into the streamer and tinsel decorated nightmare that was his first (and last) high school homecoming dance.

He hadn’t wanted to go. Would rather have been playing chicken with his skateboard on the highway. Or at home, babysitting Sam and rewatching that movie with the talking rats for the fiftieth time.

Or working on his math homework.

Really, just about _anywhere_ else doing _anything_ else would have been preferable.

But he’d made junior varsity on the football team (Thanks, he’s sure, to him being a year older than the rest of the freshman class. Flunking third grade. So helpful.) and even though he hadn’t played a second of that day’s game, it had been made clear that he was expected to attend that evening’s festivities. 

To support his team. And school.

Rah rah rah.

He hadn’t given a rat’s ass about any of it, not when the girl he’d been seeing (if you could call one awkward make-out session ‘seeing’) had broken things off with Michael the day before, opting to go to the dance with Michael’s friend Keith instead. 

The situation might have been _less_ of a mess, Michael suspects, if the sight of his friend and former almost-girlfriend dancing together had sparked the expected kind of jealousy for Michael.

Which of course, it _hadn’t_. Instead, it had dosed Michael with a confusing case of adolescent ‘ _what the fucks_ ’ when he’d caught Keith and Jenny kissing mid-dance, and he’d realized just _who_ he was jealous over. 

The whole thing had gone topsy-turvy not long after, in a spectacular (sloppy, messy, _pathetic_ ) fist fight between Michael and Keith on the dance floor to the tune of that damn overplayed Billy Idol song.

Michael had been suspended for two days following the fight. Which had been fine by him, as it gave him time to first come to terms with what he’d been feeling, and then to find a careful place in his psyche to shove said feelings into, to be dealt with never.

Three years later, Michael had moved away, the bond between him and Keith forever broken.

As the memories play back in Michael’s head, Michael finds that the old agitation, that bitter ache of confusion and loss he’d always felt in the past, is muted. The scene’s a faded sort of matte gray, instead of technicolor. Like it happened to someone else, and he’s just catching the repeat on late night TV. 

Which in a way, he guesses it kind of _had_. The person he is now so far removed from who he was _then_ as to be unrecognizable.

Different person or not, he still hates the song. (Maybe he hasn’t changed _that_ much.) And so Michael’s lip lifts up in a sneering approximation of the blond singer’s trademark curl as he reaches for the knob and seeks out another station. 

“Hey. I was listening to that.” The complaint from the driver’s seat is annoyed but without any real heat. 

Michael keeps twisting the knob, not looking at his companion, skipping over white noise in search of something - _anything_ \- else. “We’ll find something else. Can’t stand Billy Idol.”

Even though Michael knows it’s not actually possible, it feels as if the temperature inside the car drops several degrees. Shock reverberates across the link between Michael and David loud enough that it bounces Michael’s brain around inside his skull, forcing him to turn his head away from the radio towards the blond as he continues to spin the dial. 

David appears downright scandalized as he stares back at Michael, eyebrows making friends with his hairline. “You _can’t stand_ **_Billy Idol_**?”

Michael nods, head tilting at David, confused by the obvious annoyance rolling off of him. 

And also a little worried by how long David has kept his eyes from the road, regretting having let the blond take over driving duties at the last gas station. “Uh, yeah. Leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Can you watch the road, David? Don’t feel like getting up close and personal with the guardrail.”

David sneers, but turns his head back to the road, grumbling incoherent words beneath his breath that, try as he might, Michael can’t pick out. 

Not that it matters, as when an audible sentence finally _does_ work its way up and out, Michael’s still as confused as when all he’d heard was gibberish. “I’ve made a mistake.”

Michael frowns. “With what?”

“Making you immortal. I can’t spend eternity with someone who doesn't appreciate Billy Idol.”

Michael snorts, his hand dropping away from the dial when he locates something less detestable to listen to. The fast pace guitar chords and beats of Mötley Crüe playing through the speakers as a backdrop, he leans back in his seat, head angled towards David, the better to watch the exaggerated play of disgust on his lover’s face. “Too late. No take backs.” 

David’s frown deepens, but there’s a twitch at the corners of his mouth, like he’s fighting the upward tug of a smile. “Never too late for anything, Michael.”

Michael smirks at him, stretching his legs out and dragging his tongue across his bottom lip in a deliberate attention grabbing move that pulls David’s eyes straight to his mouth. “Yeah. Right. After how hard and _long_ you fought for me?” Michael drags the words out with dirty intent. Feeling playful, and eager to wash away the lingering remnants of that earlier time, of that earlier _life_. He draws upon more recent, much more _pleasurable_ memories, letting them hover at the front of his mind. The spike of lust that floods the air between them all the proof he needs that David’s on the same page. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” 

“So damn sure of yourself, aren’t you?” The question is spoken with careful neutrality that does nothing to disguise the visceral _want_ pouring off of David.  

A growl thrums across Michael’s vocal chords. “Pull over. Let’s find out.”

David does.

And they both forget all about Billy Idol. 

 


	3. Fernando

**Abba “Fernando”**  

Sated and settled back in the passenger seat on the road south, David knows what song it is from just the first couple of notes. He has no intention of subjecting himself to it, so he reaches for the dial only to have his hand smacked away by Michael. Shocked, he looks up at the man behind the wheel, the driver’s blue eyes alight with mischief as he starts to sing along with the music while David watches on in horror. “No. No absolutely  _not_. Turn it off. Right now.”

But Michael’s hand stays covering the dial as his voice gets  _stronger_. When he hits the title lyric he leans heavily away from the wheel in David’s direction and croons it in his face. David’s frozen in place by the disturbing sight. “Why do you even know the lyrics?”

 _‘You’ve met my mother and my brother, you honestly think I_ wouldn’t  _know the lyrics?’_ The thought jumps from Michael’s mind to David’s, but Michael’s singing voice doesn’t falter at all as he sings about crossing the Rio Grande.

Under any other circumstances, David would be damn proud of Michael that his ability for telepathic multi-tasking has come along so far, but as is, he’s too distressed to feel much of anything else.

“Is this a method of torture? Is that why you’re doing this? Testing the waters? Because if so, bravo. Very effective. But it’s time to stop now.” 

Michael cackles.  _Cackles!_ As he smacks David’s hand away from the dial again, the sound bleeding into an off-key “ _Liberty_ ” with a devilish grin upon his face as he turns the volume  ** _up_**.

David sinks as deep into the leather bench seat as is possible, all the way against the door, trying to put distance between himself and the... **_horror_** happening on the other side of the car. “Just  _stake_ me. It would hurt less.”

The gleam in Michael’s eyes is pure evil as he sways towards David again, all his earlier concern for road safety seeming forgotten in his Abba-induced haze. 

He manages to keep the car between the painted lines and away from any ditches as the song comes to an end - though it weaves a considerable amount. The smile on his face when he looks David’s way on the final note is wide and brilliant and blinding. Pleasant waves of giddy happiness echoing across the bond so strongly, that David’s own treacherous emotions race to sync up with those of his tormentor.

David hates himself a little for being so far gone on the bastard, but the shared laughter that fills the car between them feels good all the same.

 


	4. You Keep On Moving

**Deep Purple “You Keep On Moving”**

Another tank, another station, another song.

Michael smiles as the beat of a tune he never hears getting radio airplay hits his ears. He drums his fingers against his knee, mouthing along to the lyrics and bouncing his leg in time. Thinking it might be fun to finally learn how to play something other than his kneecap. The drums, or the guitar even. Or  _hell_ , why not both? He’s got nothing but time now, right? Why shouldn’t he spend it learning how to play a dozen instruments if he wants?

David speaks up when the song hits the third verse and Michael’s halfway through an imaginary worldwide tour as the next biggest drummer since Bonham. “Paul had a copy of this album.” He chuckles, once, the sound dark and heavy. “Two copies, actually. One he’d worn down to nothing. Sounded like garbled shit, but it was the only one he’d play. Said he was keeping the other ‘for posterity’ or something.”

Michael returns from his European stage debut and looks to David, trying to judge the meaning behind the story. The other man offering up information on the absent boys so rare, that he figures there must be a reason for it.

There’s not much light to illuminate him, the dash on the old vehicle mostly dark, but Michael’s eyes don’t need much light to see by these days. Not that it matters, as there’s nothing to read on the blond’s face, his expression that disconnected mask that Michael’s grown so familiar with in the past year.

“Think he picked up the first one on account of the cover, but turned out he liked the music too.” David’s voice is muted - not so soft as to be wistful, but a next door neighbor to it maybe.

Michael digs through his brain, trying to recall what the cover looked like, but comes up empty. He prods at David for some help, snorting when David reproduces in Michael’s mind the image of the band’s disembodied heads floating in a wine glass of dark red liquid, with the tagline ‘ _Come Taste the Band_ ’ scrolled over the top. He guffaws at the sight. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Paul was always easily amused.” The comment is said with a quiet intensity that peters out to a heavy silence, despite the song still rocking through the car.

It leaves Michael feeling like he’s intruding on something he shouldn’t be. He inches back and forth in his seat, tapping the leather seating between the two of them instead of his knee. “You, uh, you want me to change it?”

David glances at Michael, the expression on his face a little mournful, but not despondent or angry as it may have been in the past. “Nah. It’s a good song. Let it play.” 

Michael nods once, and the song plays on.

 


	5. Landslide

**Fleetwood Mac “Landslide”**

“...”

“...”

“I - you can change it if you want.”

“Course I can.”

“...”

“...”

“Are you gonna change it or…”

“Nah. Took too long to find this station. Probably just be static everywhere else.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right. So...we leave it then?”

“Might as well. It’ll be over soon.”

“Okay." Michael takes a deep breath, uncertain about what he's about to say, but unable to stop himself. "This was Star's-"

"I know."

"And you still don't mind-"

"No. Should I?" The questions is flat. Unconcerned, but Michael doesn't miss the way David's face tightens when he asks it. 

Michael moves his right shoulder in an awkward shrug. "Just got the impression you didn't care for her much."

David makes a low humming sound. "Liked her well enough at first. Liked her a whole lot less later on."

Michael doesn't have a ready response for that, knowing damn good and well  _why_  David's feelings towards Star changed. 

"You heard from her lately?"

Michael whips his head towards David, surprised by the question."No. I haven't." 

David hums again, fingers flexing on the steering wheel as he does. "Sure about that?"

"When exactly do you  _think_  I would have talked to her, David?"

"No clue. It's why I asked."

Michael thinks that's a lie, but doesn't call David on it. Instead, he settles back, letting Stevie Nicks serenade them for a few verses before offering what little he does know. "She calls my Mom sometimes. They...talk." David's gaze stays firmly on the road, though Michael can feel the way tension thrums through his frame. "Think she's still with Laddie, wherever they went. I don't - I haven't spoken to her since she left." It's the truth, but for some reason it  _feels_ like a lie.

"She took Laddie back to his father I take it?"

Michael gives a noncommittal bounce of his head. "Think so." 

"Hmm. Maybe we should pay them a visit."

Michael lets out a low laugh at the comment. "Doubt we'd be welcome."

A sly smile that Michael knows can't mean anything _good_  lifts the corner's of David's mouth. "Never know if we don't try. Could pencil it in sometime after Phoenix."

Michael rolls his eyes, knowing he's being baited and not about to be caught. "Yeah sure. Why the hell not?" Michael smirks at the way David's forehead scrunches up at the easy agreement. He means it - he's curious enough about where Star ended up and what she's been doing that visiting her isn't the  _worst_ idea he's ever heard - though he's not so much of an idiot that he doesn't know that David's reasons for wanting to see her are far from benign. 

No longer in the mood for the song, Michael changes the station. 


	6. You're My Thrill

* * *

**Billie Holiday “You’re My Thrill”**

David hums as he twists the dial through station after station of white noise. He spins it past an old jazz tune, but then twirls it back again, making an appreciative noise as a crooning female voice starts to spill from the speakers.

Satisfied with his find, he slouches back into the leather upholstery, eyes closed and an almost dream-like smile on his face.

From his spot in the driver’s seat, Michael goggles at him. “Seriously?”

“Michael Emerson, if the next words out of your mouth are that you don’t like Billie Holiday either, I’m leaving you at the next truck stop and you can find your own way back to Santa Carla. I don’t care how close to sunrise it is.”

The way his voice doesn’t falter when he says it brings Michael up short, making him think that it may be more than just an idle threat. (Not that Michael would  _let_ him leave him behind without a fight, but that’s beside the point).

Michael manages to keep his mouth shut for a cool twenty seconds, during which he watches David out of the corner of his eye. Watches as the bleached-blond, spiky-haired murderous vampire clad all in black - not a small amount of it leather,  _hell_ , there are  _spurs_ on his boots for  _Chrissakes_ \- quietly enjoys the old-fashioned song. The disconnect between the image he presents and the one the song evokes makes Michael laugh. “Damn, what decade are you  _from,_ Old Man?”

“The seventies, Michael.”

Michael snorts, rolling his eyes. Not that David can see him with his own eyes enjoying the view behind their lids. “Yeah sure. You’re younger than me. Explains the occasional tendency to throw tantrums still.” 

“The  _eighteen-seventies_ , Michael.” David says, calm and cool and not at all joking.

Michael’s hands on the wheel jerk sideways in surprise, sending the car swerving over the line before he can yank it back where it belongs. David’s eyes crack open at the disturbance, leveling a glare at Michael, but he doesn’t react otherwise. “ _Seriously_?”

David smirks at him, slipping the cigarette he had stowed behind his ear down to his mouth. He doesn’t give Michael an answer, just flicks his lighter open and sets flame to the stick, puffing on the end to get it to light, and settles back into his seat, eyes half-closed.

Michael molls the unexpected tidbit of information over in the space between verses. One particular thought standing out in greater relief against the rest. “Shit...you’re older than my Grandpa. By  _a lot_.”

“I am. And if you want to be too one day,  _shut it_ and let me enjoy the song!” 

It’s only the lingering shock of the information that keeps Michael quiet. It has nothing to do with the amber gleam in David’s eyes.

Really.

Besides, as far as old-as-sin songs go, it's not half-bad. 

 


	7. Afternoon Delight

**Starland Vocal Band “Afternoon Delight”**

Approximately one point five seconds into the song, David’s hand meets Michael’s as they both reach for the dial. David growls, fangs dropping. “I will break your hand, your arm, and all your fingers if you try and stop me from changing the station, Michael.”

Michael’s hand raises up in the air in a placating gesture that David doesn’t trust.  _At all_. “Hey! I was trying to change it too.”

“Sure you were.” David twists the dial, spinning it through endless seas of static and snowstorms and a whole lot of absolutely  _nothing else_.  

“I was.” Michael’s voice is pleading, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes that doesn’t match the sound.  

David gives him a sideways glare. “Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

Michael breathes out a heavy-handed sigh. “So little trust. And here I thought we’d really been getting somewhere this past year.”

David rolls his eyes. “You forfeited all rights to musical trust after that  _horrendous ‘_ Mamma Mia’ sing-along.

“Hey! First off, it was ‘Fernando’, and second: you  _enjoyed_ that. You were smiling. I saw you.”

“That was a defense mechanism, Michael.”

“ _Liar_.”

Which is true, but David’s not about to admit it. So he ignores him, and stops the dial on a patch of white noise; settling back in his seat to enjoy the scratchy sound of absence.

Less than a minute of quiet passes between them before Michael’s hand inches for the radio. David’s voice is curated calm when he says: “Try me, Michael.” 

“Idle threat.”

“When have you ever known me to be  _idle_ , hmm?”

Michael scoffs, giving David a tilted smile that tells the elder vampire just how  _little_ Michael thinks of David’s threats. “Go ahead, tell me all the ways that you’re gonna torture me if I change the station. What’s it gonna be this time? Something more creative than holy water dipped knives, I hope?”

David thinks holy water dipped knives are damn creative, personally, but he's not about to be lead off track for  _that_ argument again. “You ever heard of ‘ _torpor_ ,’ Michael?” David asks, dipping into the darker part of his psyche. To the blackened memories of his early life under Max’s so-called-care. Fully intending to shower Michael with the visual of being trapped -  _buried_ \- deep beneath the earth in a impenetrable box, screaming for his maker to let him out. To let him  _go_. Screaming until his throat runs dry, and the blood in his veins slows to a trickle. Skin gone paper-thin, and ashen. So desperate to be released that he’ll say anything.  _Do_ anything.

David doesn’t plan to exact such a punishment on Michael of course, but he’s not above a little mental torment. Especially not after being trapped in a car for two-hundred plus miles with Michael and his previously undocumented love of country music and  _disco_.

But before David can so much as conjure up an image of a box or a handful of  _dirt_ , Michael frowns in his direction. “Don’t think so. That a New Wave group or something?”

A surprised bark of laughter bursts out of David, amused eyes latching onto Michael. “What? No, it’s-” He shakes his head, small peels of laughter leaking out of him as he does. David’s laughter grows in time with Michael’s confusion. The uncertain look upon the younger vampire’s face endearing to David in a way that it has no right to be.

David shakes his head, his plans to teach Michael a lesson forgotten. “You know what, never mind.”

A frown stays planted on Michael’s face for a while longer, the confusion fading at a snail’s pace. But he drops the subject, and the two of them drive on in silence. 

A silence that lasts for the length of time it takes Michael to forget why the radio was off in the first place.

But David hasn’t. So really, it’s Michael’s fault that David launches at him, teeth bared, and the car is sent skidding off the road.

At least there aren't any guardrails to hit. 

And if the only casualty of the accident ends up being the radio, well, they were do for an upgrade anyway.

Preferably one with a cassette deck.  


	8. Pour Some Sugar on Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At half past two in the morning, they stop their musical bickering long enough to pull into an all-night truck stop for a refill of smokes and gas. The place is desolate, but not empty. Scattered truckers and other midnight travelers meandering from their vehicles to the store and back again with sleep-deprived steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick ficlet as I continue to get back into the writing game. This one is a departure from the previous ones in that it's neither a prompt response, nor is it part of the fighting over music series, though it IS still part of the same road trip (so Michael is a full vamp here). The title is - of course - borrowed from the song of the same name by Def Leopard, though it's not referenced in the fic itself. 
> 
> **Warning** : This bit contains some homophobic language. Also implied murder. I think you can see where this is going.

* * *

**Pour Some Sugar On Me**

At half past two in the morning, they stop their musical bickering long enough to pull into an all-night truck stop for a refill of smokes and gas. The place is desolate, but not empty. Scattered truckers and other midnight travelers meandering from their vehicles to the store and back again with sleep-deprived steps.

While Michael sets the gas pumping, David leans back against the trunk, toying with an unlit cigarette in his hands. Pump situated, Michael settles his hip against the side of the car, watching David’s gloved fingers as the thin-white stick hops over one knuckle to the next.

It’s oddly relaxing.

After a few moments, his eyes drift upward, stopping when they catch on a bit of loose thread at the back of David’s coat. Loose thread that is coming undone along the dark patches covering the holes that Michael put there, almost a year ago now.

For all that he knows the matching scars on David’s back and chest are little more than tiny starbursts of discoloration these days - he's memorized the details of them with with eyes and lips and tongue - the sight of the damaged coat makes Michael frown.

Without his say-so, his hand lifts up to play at one of the threads, his body shifting along the side of the car until he’s hip to hip with David at the corner.

“Something wrong, Michael?”

“Patch is coming undone.”

A smirk dances over David’s mouth as he eyes Michael over his shoulder. “You tugging at the string isn’t going to help matters.”

“I know that you ass, I just-” He cuts himself off, not wanting to say out loud how uncomfortable it makes him seeing the way the fraying edges of the patch expose the damage that was done. It’s just a fucking _coat_. It shouldn’t elicit an emotional response.

 _And yet.._.

He shrugs, forcing his fingers to stop fondling the thread, flattening his palm against David’s back instead, smoothing his hand down until it rests near the base of his spine.

“Need to fix it, before it gets worse.”

David arches his brows at Michael. “You offering?

Michael snorts. “Only if you want me to butcher the thing. No idea how to fucking sew.”

“Useful enough skill. Should give it a try.”

Michael let’s the comment go, attention drawn to the patches once again, unable to keep the memory of having almost killed David from rising to life in his head. His fingers curl inward, gripping at the dark heavy fabric, the physical connection acting as an anchor to the present.

There’s a prodding at his thoughts that makes him lift his eyes up from the patched holes to meet David’s gaze. The look he’s giving Michael a strange amalgamation of bewildered and pleased. Eyes bright and blue and human. “Still not used to this.”

“What?”

“You. Giving a shit.”

Laughing, Michael tilts his head into David’s neck, dragging his scent into his lungs on a deep inhale. “Yeah, well. Get used to it.” Michael’s lips dance against the blond’s skin as he huffs out the command. The subtle brush enough to cause warmth to pool low in Michael while it also works to banish his dreary thoughts.

But more than that, it also makes him feel _happy_ to be hanging out by a slow as molasses gas pump in a shitty truck stop on the middle of I-15.

Go figure.

Judging by the way that David’s head angles down, closer to Michael’s - a pleasant rumble in his chest - Michael figures he feels the same.

He’s just chancing a quick nip with blunt teeth where David’s neck meets his shoulder - wanting more of him, _always_ wanting more of him - when the bubble they’ve created is burst by the disgusted rumblings of the man the next pump over.

“Fucking cock-suckers. Can’t keep that shit behind closed doors. Perverts.”

For all the commentary is not meant for them to hear - a quiet string of expletives breathed out into the night - it’s loud as a shot to Michael and David. In unison, they turn their heads towards the source of the nasty words, training matching predatory gazes on the warped soul who uttered them.

They watch as the man grimaces beneath a dirty baseball cap when their eyes lock with his. A spike of fear flavors his scent from the brief eye contact alone. It thrills Michael to taste it in the air, making him lick his lips.

The man's fear is followed by agitation and annoyance. Michael dips into his head without even trying, and finds the emotions to all be self-directed as the man tries to quell what he considers to be an unreasonable response to a couple of punk-ass teenage fairies scowling at him.

He turns back to his own pump, grumbling to himself. The change in position exposes a swath of beer-gut struggling to stay inside a too-small t-shirt that may have been white once upon a time.

From behind them, Michael can hear their gas pump click off, indicating that the tank is full. But he ignores it, preferring to continue staring at the pasty asshole that fucked up his sense of peace.

Beside him, Michael can feel the way that David’s muscles tense, ready to pounce. “Feeling hungry, Michael?”

Eyes on their prey as he fumbles with the door to his pick-up, Michael grins, vicious and wanting. “I could eat.”


End file.
